Watch What Happens
by Isis Falconer
Summary: Working with your two best friends for a group of hot, gay, bleeding heart liberals lead by a hotter, gayer bleeding heart liberal was not fun. But it was too bloody late now. Tiny little Enjoltaire story which I may or may not continue.


Reporting was not fun. Advertising was not fun. And working with your two best friends and a group of hot, gay revolutionaries lead by an even hotter, gayer revolutionary was not fun. But it was too bloody late now, because Grantaire had finally landed a decent, well paid job, and dropping it now would be like deciding to drop a million euro inheritance to go and live in a cave in the Himalayas.

He hadn't even wanted the job in the first place. Needed it, yes, but not wanted it. Éponine and Montparnasse had said they'd found a decent workload for their vaguely pathetic businesses advertising for the protest group "Les Amis de l'ABC", and that they were unlikely to get another opportunity like this, because the leader was rich as fuck. Which was kind of ironic, since he was fighting his own class.

Grantaire's aforementioned pathetic company consisted of him, his friend Éponine, and her kind-of boyfriend doing advertising, coverage and photography for other pathetic companies. He did the photography and art, because that was in his opinion the only thing he didn't suck at, Montparnasse did the coverage because Éponine couldn't write, and Éponine did the talking and maths, because she was just speech and maths and intense grunge. It sort of worked out. They earned enough to pay the bills (nearly, anyway) and they had an actual two roomed flat to share, which wasn't infested by anything.

The job itself was normally pretty good fun. Since it was their own business, they had next to no obligations, and it was pretty free. The hours were often pretty shit, especially with their combined procrastination skills, and the pay wasn't normally fantastic, but it was okay for them. Grantaire got to do art, so their were no complaints to be made.

But this job was the absolute worst. Not only because of the homosexual tension and attraction which practically leaked out of every member of the group, but also because of the fucking job. Grantaire was making flags, and posters, and leaflets, all with variously stupid messages like "you have to fight for your right", "vive la France" and "a brand new age of equality, justice, and brotherhood is about to dawn", which he had to write in cursive all over the work. There was the leader as well, who was so goddamn critical of Grantaire's work, and far too cute when he frowned, and all of his cronies (who admittedly weren't that bad but were still so irritating with their hope of glory and shit).

And he was on his fifth day of working with them. Out of a month. He still had ages to go, for fuck's sake. He didn't even bother trying to smile when he got to their meeting place, some backroom in some hipster coffee shop. He wasn't graced with the sunniest disposition, so he normally tried to make and effort to smile at old ladies in the street and shit, but not here. Not here. There was absolutely no point in pretending, because the leader (he had some pretentious name that Grantaire couldn't remember) seemed able to decipher his exact emotions. Which was not good.

"This is too difficult to do without alcohol," he sighed as the three of them walked into the room and were met by yelling and the stench of self-righteous anger. "Is it too early for alcohol?" 

"R, it's half ten in the morning," Éponine reminded him, "of course not. Go and grab something for me too."

"And me," Montparnasse added, "Irish coffee if they do it." One of the guys was staring at them. Like, proper intense staring. It was kind of scary.

"What," Éponine snapped.

"N-nothing," the boy stuttered, obviously terrified by Éponine's intense eyeliner (and to be fair, it was pretty intimidating), "it's just...alcohol? At this time in the morning? Do you have any idea how much that ruins your day? As well as your liver? It's a serious health hazard! There are so many good people like you who choose to do this and it never ends well! And the diseases are-" He is silenced by a hand on his back.

"Joly," his bald boyfriend says, "its fine. No-one's going to die today. They're okay. I think Courf needs some help over there with the maps." He turned to them. "I'm sorry about him. He's a hypochondriac. Gets really anxious really quickly. You should go and get your drinks. Enj is unbearable at this time of day."

"Ah, so our golden leader has a name."

Montparnasse smirked. "Pretty sure you knew his name before, judging by what you say in your sleep." Grantaire slapped his arm.

"Piss off. I don't say anything in my sleep."

Éponine waved her phone at him. "I have evidence," she teased, going to unlock it. "Wanna hear, Bossuet?"

"No, he doesn't. We're here to work, so work."

"Fine. Drinks on you."

"Fine." Grantaire stalked off towards the bar in his Angry Walk. Okay, so he had had a dream about the mighty patriot, but that wasn't under his control. It wasn't even in the slightest bit romantic or sexual. It was just...irritating. Grantaire was trying to attract his attention to ask him something- fuck knows what- and Mr Liberty had just kept ignoring him. He had no idea what his "friends" were getting at.

He approached the bar and pulled out his wallet. A few buttons fell out.

"Three Irish coffees please," he asked, counting out the loose change. The barman nodded. Grantaire felt even more pissed. He wasn't even asked to show identity now. And he was only twenty-four. Although, admittedly, he did look like a gargoyle. His nose was hooked and crooked and too big for his face. His eyes were too far apart and a horrible watery blue- nowhere near as bright and fiery as Captain France. And he was too short. Too fucking short. The barista handed him the coffees. He pushed the money across the waxed bar but the bloke shook his head.

"You're two euros short," he said, opening his palm.

"Christ, how much are these coffees," he muttered to himself as he rummaged around in his pocket. He found a button and his keys and a sketch, but no coins. "I'll be back in a minute," he said to the barman. He went back into the backroom and was met by Éponine's hopeful gaze. "Got no money. Since you lot are all about helping the poor, how about you give me two euros? I promise it's a worthy cause." He might have said it a bit too mockingly but it worked. Virgin Lips approached him and offered him the change, and fucking smiled at him, and fucking touched his hand for longer than necessary, and he accepted. And that was that, the only vaguely interesting interaction of the day.

And if he spend that entire evening thinking about it, well, that was for him to know and no one to ever find out.

AN: Thanks for reading guys! What do you think? Please let me know if I should continue and whatnot and whether you enjoyed it.


End file.
